


'Tis The Season

by insistentbass



Series: Festive Flings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Christmas, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Public Hand Jobs, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Snow, Swearing, body parts on the kitchen table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27859862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: '“The season for death!” Sherlock announces, gesturing with wide arms to the collection of body parts on the kitchen table.'The first in a series of fics of varying lengths, using prompts from the Advent 2020 challenge.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Festive Flings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	'Tis The Season

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from writing the Your Mouth To My Heart series, so decided to take part in a challenge. Hopefully I'll make it all the way through, but if nothing else I'll give it a good shot. 
> 
> My head canon says this ignores S3 and S4, though really you can place it in whatever timeline you'd like!
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> B x

“Are you bloody kidding me –”

John’s incredulous. Sherlock knows he is because the man’s right brow nearly reaches his hairline, pushing the skin on his forehead into almost comical lines. John is so expressive sometimes that he’s almost a caricature of himself. If he could draw, Sherlock would stick sketches of him to the fridge and cover his bedroom walls with them.

“Not at all. ’Tis the season, John”

Sherlock feels this should be explanation enough.

John and his eyebrow disagree.

“The season for death!” Sherlock announces, gesturing with wide arms to the collection of body parts on the kitchen table.

They aren’t really body _parts_. More like, parts of body parts. Sherlock doesn’t know the particular medical term for the slice of skin he has between his tweezers – if there even is one – but perhaps John does. Which is why Sherlock had texted him to wake up, immediately please.

That, and he wanted to show off his pretty impressive collection.

The doctor does not look galvanised though. Rather, he seems mildly angry and a little disappointed that Sherlock has used his favourite teacup for a suspicious looking reddy brown liquid. Sherlock’s not entirely sure what that is. Another reason he needs John here.

“You know, normal people would have turkey and roast potatoes on Christmas day,” John begins, rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes as if doing so may erase the decidedly un-festive display off the table.

“Maybe even some stuffing, a few Yorkshire puddings,” He continues, flicking on the kettle and producing two clean mugs from the cupboard. “Some crackers to pull, even”

Sherlock wants to explain to John that those things will all come later, once the bits and bobs in front of him have all been named and catalogued. Mrs Hudson will rustle up some kind of mostly edible dinner for them, Sherlock will play his violin beautifully in return, kissing her on the cheek, and John will smile softly with sentiment and the whisky warming his blood – but now is not the time for those things. Now is the time for work. Instead, Sherlock stands there in silence, glob of unidentified human detritus held out firmly before him.

The kettle comes to a boil, steaming gently as John pours their cups. He turns to the table as the tea steeps, sighing resignedly. Sherlock thinks he can see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but he could be mistaken. He’s not ever overjoyed to find Sherlock’s experiments in their small flat, yet sometimes it’s as if he secretly relishes the long winded explanations he receives, hanging on every word that tumbles from Sherlock’s mouth. John turns his attention back to the hot beverages, squeezing out the tea bags and adding a splash of milk to each.

“ _Purlicue_ ” He says, stepping towards Sherlock and his specimen. He places the mugs on the table in front of them, leaning forward to regard the mysterious bit of flesh.

“Colloquially it’s called the purlicue. But really, it’s just a bit of hand skin”

Sherlock doesn’t remember opening his mouth to ask, but he can’t be sure. Cannot, in fact, be sure of much in that moment, with John’s face so close, peeping over his shoulder to analyse the aforementioned item. If he turns his head, Sherlock could run his tongue along those deeply etched valleys on John’s forehead. He wonders what those are called, and how long the salty tang would stay on his tastebuds for.

John’s wearing his version of pyjamas – grey slouchy jogging bottoms and an old t-shirt that hugs his biceps. Sherlock notes they were fresh on last night, the sweet smell of the lavender softener John insists on using tickles at his nostrils. His hair is greying and ruffled with sleep, a tempting tangle that Sherlock wants to run his fingers through. John always looks best in the morning, soft and pliable and unmarred by the stress of the day to come.

Sherlock can only make a small noise in the back of his throat in return.

“It’s this small area of the hand,” John continues to explain. “Right here”

All of a sudden John’s fingers are wrapping around his wrist, thumb smoothing a line between Sherlock’s own digit and forefinger. The sensitive dip of skin there tenses at the touch, sparking a shiver that travels up the length of Sherlock’s arm. His pulse jumps, and the metal prongs he had been holding so tensely in his grip spring apart.

The purlicue makes an odd wet _splosh_ as it falls into his freshly made tea.

“And that – “John smiles. He grabs his skin-less brew, and heads into the living room. “Is what we call karma”

Sherlock looks down at his mug, marvelling at the ability of body parts to end up in his drinks. He closes his eyes, inhales through his nose, and fishes it out again with his tweezers. Annoyed at his own clumsiness, he abandons his tools and curiosities and wraps his dressing gown around himself with a huff.

John is sat in his chair, already reading through the morning paper. The plush of the fabric looks soft and inviting and Sherlock is sure he could fold himself small enough to fit right there, beside John’s warm body. Instead though, he begins clearing the kitchen table, folding away his instruments carefully in hopes of dispelling his traitorous thoughts.

They spend the rest of the day eating Mrs Hudson’s debatable turkey, sharing several types of alcohol and avoiding the stack of boardgames sitting dangerously in the corner. Sherlock pours John’s drinks and leans over to steal mince pies from his plate, squeezes past him to put things in cupboards while he does the dishes, and generally does anything he can to collect the touches he can later brush off as accidental.

If John notices, he doesn’t say anything. Sherlock watches him drift off in his chair, air quietly puffing in and out of his nose as he falls into unconsciousness. When he’s certain John is asleep, Sherlock traces the small area of skin between his own thumb and forefinger. It’s not the same, when he does it. He spends the rest of the night trying to emulate that touch, but it’s never quite right.

 _Purlicue_. Sherlock repeats it in his head as he gently places a blanket over John’s sleeping form.

He spends the remainder of the night behind his microscope, and does not think of it again.


End file.
